ill say no to all those romantic nuances that are very often attributed to that expression, I am not sick of love, sighing at the moon for a great lost, lost in memories captured in photos of smiling faces and carefree. This is only the beautiful, poetic beauty, one that would inspire all the verses of poets are cursed, which piceladas gray paint with more melancholy prints in the world, who would steal bits of soul to dilute them in sad songs, but for that other party horrible, petty, so stained with soot that consumes all the sketches of my great work half of my story without end. A lot of unfinished stories reduced to ashes, after the helpless child teach the wolf teeth and disrupt allend, happy and sad, making a blur report, eroding both the role that it is impossible to draw a new sky over the ruins that threw the storm.
Coal burned on a canvas.
I'm corrupt, incomplete. Marchándote knew you'd end up, I guess. I knew it, but tried to deny it by all means, just do not fit into my head that could happen, although it was aware that every beginning has an end. He also knew that you would leave with empty hands. But imagine that you would like to take just that made me happy, that both shell of talking, which helped me not feel too much.
The uprooted, and that muscle weak pulsatingspurts are still the marks of your nails, bleeding every time I try to beat a little stronger. Keep your stigmata, admiring when turned off, hating and loving at the same time every time you cut up my skin again, each time they return to kill me a little more, forcing me to seek your embrace in the shadows.
Why I can not bury once and for all, as you've done with me. Why I can not fill your emptiness with a lot of faces, names, laughter, and that picture only relegarte from which I still stare. Why I can not break into pieces, why I can not remove all the walls against which I have been starring in these two years.
Two years, two years ... I thought
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